Chapter 3
JULES
Maladaptive: not providing adequate or appropriate adjustment to the environment or situation. Adjective: Dysfunctional, nonadaptive, poorly adjusted.
“That’s fitting,” I muttered with a touch of bitterness. “Another name to add to my list of conditions… and for what?”
I stared at my phone’s Google search page for a beat before returning to the letter I had received in my email.
The words “Maladaptive Daydreaming” looked back at me as if putting a name on it would make any of it feel better.
I tried to read the entirety of the letter for a second time. No success.
A lot of words to say that, at least in this lifetime, I could never be just… normal.
With a long sigh, I slumped back in my chair. Sunlight poured through a large window on my right, flooding the room with a warm morning glow. It called my gaze to the Manhattan city skyline, a view I used to dream about having. Now that I did, it felt distant, like it belonged to someone else.
My office was bright and spacious, with the perfect combination of funky and modern decor. The walls were lined with awards, photos, and books. Evidence of the career I had fought hard to build.
The dream, right?
Funny how things worked out. It seems dissociating, creating worlds in my head, and having an obsessive need to keep everything in order was the perfect recipe for a successful advertising executive.
Apparently, not everyone had both sides.
People tended to fall into one camp or the other, either wildly creative but messy or painfully organized but uninspired.
But that “crazy” mind of mine brought me here, and for that, I was proud.
Through the floor-to-ceiling glass doors, I could see the agency in full swing. Some were walking around, and some were sitting across their screens, conversations layered over each other. Yet, I was overjoyed to have reached the point where I had my own office.
Don’t get me wrong. I had amazing coworkers.
But no matter how hard I tried, it always felt like I was not allowed to be part of some sort of inside joke the world was in.
As I got older, I limited my interactions and saved myself from overstimulation at any cost. Lonely, yes. But comfortable, at least.
My gaze wandered to the main door when I saw her. My heart instantly softened.
Grandma Rosa.
She moved slowly but gracefully despite her age, her presence calming to everyone around her. She was always impeccably dressed, and today was no different. She wore a tailored burgundy blazer and a silk scarf, which felt like a secret rebellion against the casual vibe of the office.
I was now smiling, and I didn’t even notice. By the time she reached my door, I felt lighter. She didn’t bother knocking—she never did. Her presence filled the room with more warmth than the mid-morning sun.
“You’re working too hard again, aren’t you?” She said, teasing as she stepped inside.
“What are you doing here, Nana? You shouldn’t be here.” I blinked and rubbed my eyes. “You should be resting.”
She waved me off with a familiar flick of her hand, her bracelets jingling.
“Ah, rest is for the dead.”
The comment hit me harder than I expected. I shook my head as if it would make the discomfort disappear. She immediately caught that something was going on, like she always did.
“What are you reading over there?” She asked, her eyes flickering to the phone still clutched in my hand.
I blinked once I realized and looked down at the screen.
“Oh… Apparently, daydreaming as much as I do is an actual condition. It’s called Maladaptive Daydreaming.”
“Shush,” Nana immediately said. “There is nothing wrong with you. In my day, we didn’t have all these labels.”
“In your day, I would probably have been lobotomized by now, Nana.” I almost said it. But I bit my tongue. Exclusivity saved for Nana only.
Instead, I looked away, and the memories came rushing back. Daydreaming had been a double-edged sword in my life. Sure, it had given me an escape from the world that often felt too sharp and loud, but it had also stolen many moments and even cost me some relationships. My marriage, for example.
I could feel myself slipping into that painful spiral when Nana settled into the chair across from me. Her eyes alone could ground me in a way that, honestly, felt supernatural.
“You’re special, darling,” she said softly. “Always were. And that comes with its own… set of challenges.”
I couldn’t stop myself from rolling my eyes.
“People usually describe me as weird, Nana. Not special. Just weird.”
She was not happy with the eye roll or the comment, so I let out a small laugh and leaned against my desk, facing her.
“Besides, it’s okay. I like being weird,” I said, shrugging. “Being normal is overrated anyway. I mean, it feels like an offense to the world, being born just to end up like everyone else, right?”
I once read a book quote that said, “Being normal is not necessarily a virtue.” I’ve carried that around as my life mantra since I was ten.
Nana’s lips curved into a smile. “Exactly!” She said, nodding in approval.
She knew a thing or two about being different and carving her own path.
This was the woman who raised four kids practically on her own after my grandfather—who decided that cheating on her with half of their small town in North Carolina wasn’t enough—fled the country with a history teacher.
He came crawling back a couple of years later, ready to make amends, and she shut the door in his face—literally, I might add.
By then, she’d already built her career, packed up the kids, moved to New York City, and never looked back.
What a woman, my Nana.
Maybe her ex-husband was the reason I carried so much anger toward men, or perhaps it was the fact that my dad and uncles still talked about him like he was some hero. “He did his best.” They’d say. Seriously?
I’m glad I birthed a male, taught him you don’t get breaks because of your gender, and started dismantling the institution from within.
Ha. See? Old Jules was here somewhere.
“They say some meds for OCD might help,” I said, testing the waters. “I’ve been referred to a psychiatrist. We’ll see…”
I saw a flicker of worry on Nana’s face, but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. “Why would you want to erase your gift with medication?”
“Nana…” I said in a quick plea. I needed her to understand.
I needed her to be on my side for this. She was the only person, aside from my therapist, who knew about my daydreams. However, I’d never really gone into details.
I’d told her about them when I was a kid, and they’d never stopped, only grown with me.
It felt safe talking to her because, in her eyes, I’d always be special, no matter what.
She would never judge me for being… well, me.
I didn’t trust that other people would love me unconditionally once they knew about the mayhem in my head, so I kept quiet about it.
Or maybe I was embarrassed. To be a grown-ass woman in her thirties, spending hours upon hours lost in stories and building worlds that existed only in my head. Pathetic, really.
Her eyes softened, and I watched her hand wrinkles dance as she gave mine a gentle squeeze.
“Of course, my dear. Whatever feels right to you.” She quickly changed the subject, her gaze flickering to my earrings. “Well, those are some cheerful earrings. I love them!”
I chuckled, touching my earlobe, reminded of my choice. They were made of little sparkling red and blue stones shaped like Captain America’s shield.
“I’m taking the afternoon off to bring Liam to a Comic Convention.”
She raised a brow.
“That sounds fun! But do you think you two can handle the noise, the lights, and all those people?” She knew me too well and knew big crowds and loud places set me on edge. And she’d been right about Liam too, as he seemed to have inherited my sensitivity.
“Yeah, we’ve talked about it, and he insists on going, so… I’m taking my earplugs and Carol for backup,” I said, laughing.
“Oh yes, your sister… She’s such a big help with the kids. I’m so proud of the two of you.” Nana quickly busied herself, straightening a few papers on my desk, but her tone felt suspiciously sad.
My sister had moved in with me after the divorce, leaving behind her modern studio downtown and the buzzing life she loved.
She claimed it was to help me with the kids, but I knew her real reason.
She understood how things could get when I was left alone with my thoughts for too long.
Carol didn’t want to just lend a hand; she wanted to keep an eye on me and offer a safety net I might not admit I needed.
I slid back into my chair and turned back to my laptop.
“I really need to get back to work, Nana…” I said with an apologetic smile.
“Of course, of course,” she said, waving her hand lightly as she picked up one of the magazines on the corner of my desk. “I’ll sit here quietly and catch up on some celebrity gossip. I promise, not a peep from me.”
I nearly laughed. I was sure she couldn’t name a single current celebrity, but I played along, nodding to let her know she was welcome to stay as long as she wanted. The screen’s glow reflected on my face as I began typing, slipping back into work mode.
Nana stayed seated across from me, and it reminded me of those quiet afternoons from my childhood when I’d sit at her kitchen table with my homework, stealing glances as she read by my side.
I let myself pretend I was there, back to easier times.